


War Stories

by silvered



Category: Rome (TV 2005)
Genre: Hand Jobs, M/M, Power Dynamics, Scar touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:34:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25512880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silvered/pseuds/silvered
Summary: In a tent somewhere in Gaul, Caesar makes Antony a proposal.
Relationships: Mark Antony/Julius Caesar
Comments: 10
Kudos: 34
Collections: Rare Male Slash Exchange 2020





	War Stories

**Author's Note:**

  * For [moonfishes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonfishes/gifts).



> Hi recip! I was really excited to be able to write Caesar/Antony. I tried to write it more or less in tune with your likes, so hopefully you enjoy it. :)

Antony’s head ached. Waking up feeling sore was nothing new for him, but it was the fact that it was self-inflicted that hung over him. He snarled at everyone that day and stayed in his tent as much as possible, away from the bright Gaulish sun. Even a vile concoction of willow bark boiled in water prepared by the Egyptian slave, who tended to the wounded, had done nothing to heal his pain.

It must be the local wines, he thought, and sourly wondered if he had been poisoned. The fact that he had been roaring drunk and gone through jug after jug to cheers from his men didn’t matter. He could drink like a king in Rome and not feel like this.

He woke after a short sleep and felt marginally better, but his skin was slick with sweat and his tunic clung to his skin. Running a hand through his damp hair, he shouted for his bathing slave and collapsed back on his bed.

“Dominus?”

“Bring your tools,” Antony said, already pulling off his sandals.

The slave nodded respectfully and scurried off.

Antony was already fully naked and waiting, his tunic thrown to the ground beside him, when the slave returned. First, he was dowsed in water, and he watched the glistening droplets land on the grass of his tent’s floor. If he was in Rome, he thought, he could be doing this in the privacy of his own home, not in a tent in a field surrounded by other men. Like a beast, he thought, and briefly wondered how the plebs did it.

Slowly, he relaxed. They had taken this slave, some young man with an unpronounceable Gaulish name, some months back, and since then he had been Antony’s. He was very good at his work, and he was three heads shorter than Antony, who never trusted anyone he couldn’t be sure of besting in a fight. As the slave massaged oil into his skin, he closed his eyes and sighed.

The strigil scraped along his skin, bumping off old scars here and there, but the slave was cautious in his work, and Antony didn’t move until he heard a heavy step and his tent door parted.

“Antony.”

For the first time, the strigil faltered on his skin, and he felt the slave exhale on his back. He was not surprised to open his eyes and see Caesar there, looking half-amused. He had a jug of wine with him.

“Caesar,” Antony replied, refusing to break eye contact, even as he saw Caesar’s eyes flicker over him briefly. Soldiers saw blood and guts on the battlefield, men thrown from horses with bones protruding through skin. This was nothing. And as for the niceties of titles, they were well past that.

“You are a vulgar creature,” Caesar had told him once, as they made camp under a starry sky.

Antony, who had been handing off his horse to a slave, had looked up and that and snorted.

“And?”

Caesar had smiled his brief mirthless smile, and said nothing. Posca had simply laughed. Since then, things had been more cordial between them. Antony knew how much Caesar respected his ability, and took full advantage in saying whatever he pleased.

“Hand me my…” Antony started to say, but the slave stilled at a wave from Caesar.

“You may go,” Caesar said to him, and the slave scurried out gratefully.

“What was that about?” Antony said, watching Caesar set the jug of wine down and sit opposite him.

“I want to talk to you about something,” Caesar said, as his eyes flickered down to Antony’s chest again. Antony watched Caesar with interest; the man was unknowable in some ways, truly, but this was just very strange.

“What are you looking at?”

“It’s that scar there,” Caesar said, pointing. “I’ve never seen one like it.”

“Hmph,” Antony said, pouring them both cups of wine. “I got this in Judea. Man grazed me with the tip of a spear, but it dragged and peeled my skin back like a pomegranate. Healer couldn’t do anything with it.” He paused, and took a drink of wine. It was good, dark and subtle, and it soothed him. “Almost tore my nipple off, but women love it.”

Caesar widened his eyes and took a drink. He was studying the scar again, and Antony tried to picture it in his eyes. It was an ugly, knotty thing, gleaming with unscraped oil in the warm lamp light.

He was just taking another drink and waiting for Caesar to spit out whatever he had to say, when Caesar pointed to a scar on his knee and asked, “What about that one?”

Antony fingered the scar briefly. It was a small purplish scar shaped like a new moon.

“Got it after being knocked off a horse in Alexandria, landed hard on a sharp rock. Bruised for weeks.”

Caesar’s dark eyes glittered in the low light, and he drained his cup in one long swallow before saying “I thought you knew how to fight.”

Antony frowned. “Funny. They ran their horse into mine and slit my saddle straps. Never fought anywhere like there since.”

Caesar poured them both some fresh wine, letting Antony’s words dissipate in the warm night air. Antony watched a tiny drop of unscraped oil that had melted on his skin roll down his shoulder. Looking up, he saw that Caesar had followed its progress too, but then his eyes lingered on Antony’s shoulder.

“Where’s that one from?”

Antony looked, and smirked.

“A woman gave me that.”

“Really,” Caesar said, in a flat tone. “You rut like a beast.”

Something in the way he said ‘rut’ stuck in Antony’s mind, but he just took another drink of wine and watched Caesar watching him. Caesar’s dark eyes were steady and unafraid, and his gaze lingered. That, Antony supposed, was why he’d joined him. He knew a leader when he saw one. Let Pompey bicker with the old women in the Senate.

“You’ve had a good war,” Caesar said, after a time.

“Mmm,” Antony murmured, still thinking about the way Caesar was looking at him.

“I’ve got something in mind for you. An important role.”

Antony watched him, waiting, but he was desperately impatient all the same. Caesar’s mercurial mind in that gigantic head of his still had the ability to surprise him, and Antony hated surprises.

“How would you like to be the people’s tribune?”

“Tribune of the plebs, eh? To what do I owe this honour?”

“You have served me well,” Caesar said, his face still and unreadable, “but I need you in Rome. I need a man who I can trust to be loyal.”

“Loyal? _Me_? Surely you are mistaken,” Antony said, with a hollow little laugh. He finished his wine and set the cup down with a clank.

Caesar leaned forward, and put the tip of his finger on Antony’s knotted scar. The tip of his finger was unexpectedly hot, and the pressure was matched by the intensity in Caesar’s eyes. Antony fingered his empty cup and looked back at Caesar. Caesar dragged the tip of his finger down the bumpy skin of the scar, the leftover oil on Antony’s skin providing easier passage than might otherwise be expected.

“I assure you,” Caesar said, eyes dark as the grave, “I am not.”

Antony felt himself harden to Caesar’s touch, with horror, and his mind raced. He had no way of concealing himself without looking like a coward – and he would not have that said of him by anyone, let alone Caesar.

When Caesar gripped him with the surety of the seasoned commander that he was, Antony felt his breath whistle out through his lips. Caesar’s lips moved in an almost smile, and his fingers, slick with oil from Antony’s skin, tightened and began to slide up and down Antony’s cock.

To Antony’s half horror, he enjoyed it, and Caesar realised it too.

“Come now, General Antony,” Caesar whispered, “you underestimate the strength of my regard for you.”

Antony was too busy trying to control his breath to speak. He would not react to this, he would not give Caesar the satisfaction, but Caesar’s hand was steady and brisk, and Antony struggled.

Caesar smiled.

When Antony came, he bit deep into his own forearm to avoid notifying the soldiers outside of what was happening.

Caesar held out his stained hand to him, as imperious as ever. His eyes betrayed not a hint of what had just happened. Antony would have admired it, if it had happened to someone else.

“Clean that off.”

Antony snatched up his tunic from the floor and dabbed Caesar’s hand clean.

“Good,” Caesar said, getting up to leave. He paused just before he went out the door.

“And by the way General Antony, you leave in the morning.”

Antony sighed into the empty air.


End file.
